


your heart's against my chest (your lips pressed to my neck)

by shoulderbladesarewings



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Angst, Lap dancing, M/M, Rimming, Smut, Strippers & Strip Clubs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-23
Updated: 2016-01-28
Packaged: 2018-05-08 18:39:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,443
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5508569
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shoulderbladesarewings/pseuds/shoulderbladesarewings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>prompt: can you do a zouis AU please where Zayn is like 19-20 years of age and is a stripper, and Louis ( 23-24 ) comes to Zayn's place of work one day and notices the younger man and Zayn lets Louis fuck him during a private show. Can you also add a lot of rimming please ?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> ahhh i suppose i had to learn to write a rimming scene sometime. this was actually surprisingly enjoyable to write :)
> 
> (i had to google 'lap dance etiquette' and 'what happens in champagne rooms' to write this so)
> 
> (yes, even in a zouis-centric universe there has to be at least a mention of larry and ziam)
> 
> (i am an awkward person who is hopefully improving in her smut-writing skills. hopefully)
> 
> (how much rimming is 'a lot of' rimming?)

Zayn Malik has been stripping since he was sixteen, and he’s never once slipped from professionalism: always slaps client’s hands away when they try to touch him up; never accepts the phone numbers they slip into his jockstrap along with the £5 notes (even if they’re attached to a full fifty); never spends more time on them than they pay for. He’s always had a good mindset for it, really, because he doesn’t tend to like people. He’s got a type, and it’s not the type that frequent smoky little bars where often-underage boys grind on thin air and laps, their eyes wide and empty.

   Tonight, for example, is the typical crowd. Men in pinstripe suits with greying hair and wedding rings. Gaggles of straight women who sip sugary cocktails through dick-shaped straws. Leering old guys who drool all over him, and try to proposition him afterwards in the alley (some of them aggressively).

   Zayn is dancing on the counter, naked already this late in the night, stripped to his lucky Iron Man underwear. He hates the lighting in this club: dim strobes don’t suit him, don’t do his cheekbones and his eyes justice because the only thing they want to showcase is his body – admittedly a good body, glowing with colour and ink, but he can’t help wishing that they wanted something more. That anyone actually would actually care that he’s at uni studying English, that he thinks Hemingway is overrated, that he’s sick of sleeping alone but he doesn’t know how to be with real people anymore.

   He actually had a coffee date a few days ago, with an admittedly gorgeous boy he met in the university gym, called Liam. He was sweet, and gentle and seemed genuinely interested in him – but when Zayn told him what he did to earn rent money (he has a policy of getting it out there as soon as possible, before he can expect too much of them), Liam threw some money on the table and fled.

   _Whatever,_ Zayn thought, pocketing the change as a tip for Liam wasting his time. When they see each other at the gym now, Liam always blushes under Zayn’s defiant stare.

Zayn’s been thinking about fucking him, just to get it over with. It’s going to happen, always does when potential boyfriends find out his profession. They never want to be with him for real, but they can never resist a quick, dirty fulfilment of a guilty fantasy either. With boys like Liam, it takes a while, but they always come back.

   Just like the customers. Zayn recognises this one, a cookie cutter old gay guy who never had the means to meet anyone when he was young and is now miserable in a culture that glorifies youth and is repulsed by age. Zayn’s always saddened by these men – but his sympathy does not stop the guy’s hand getting a quick, sharp slap when it reaches out to grab his arse.

   _‘Watch it,’_ Zayn purrs, crouching down to drag a finger up the man’s throat to his chin. _‘If that’s what you want, there’s always a street corner.’_

 _‘Only if you’re standing on it,’_ the guy leers back.

   Something in Zayn recoils. But his hunger, and the man’s bulging wallet, forbid him from pointing out that implying you want to buy sex from someone three times younger than you is gross. Instead, he sits down, his legs open, and slides himself onto the guy’s lap. _‘I prefer to sit.’_

 _‘You could sit on my face,’_ he offers, and Zayn wants to retch. He’s afraid that if he opens his mouth he will, so he keeps his lips pressed together, focusing his energy on grinding down on the man’s dick. He feels it stiffen against his arse and at least that doesn’t disgust him, that’s what he expects from this job. It would be hypocritical of him to be repulsed by it. He’s the one sitting on a sixty-year old’s lap in a jockstrap, grinding to the beat of a Lady GaGa song.

   He feels it when the guy comes, dampness through jeans against his bare skin, and he closes his eyes and leans his head against his shoulder, pretending that that was normal sex he’s just had, where both parties end up satisfied, and there’s cuddling afterwards instead of just a rough hand shoving a wad of money into his palm.

   _‘You’re the best one,’_ he breathes into Zayn’s ear, and the words work themselves into Zayn’s bloodstream like cigarette smoke; relief. He’s the best.

   _‘Thank you,’_ he murmurs back.

   ‘Malik!’ one of the bouncers Niall, calls. ‘Attend to your other customers before they start a riot!’

   Zayn looks around, and his heart sinks. It’s one of the married guys. One of the rich ones, who can afford to take him into the Champagne Room.

   Zayn fucking hates the Champagne Room. It’s essentially a therapy session, except he’s the therapist and between soothing noises he has to explain to whoever’s there with him that no, he’s not one of the strippers who doesn’t mind trading sex for money. Good for them for not being squeamish, but he’s never going to go that far. It’s just not in him.

   Doesn’t stop them from trying to convince him, of course.

   _‘Come on,’_ the man coaxes, under the sweet strains of Ariana Grande, ghosting his fingers over Zayn’s chest. _‘I’ll give you the fucking keys to my car, just let me see my cock in your mouth.’_ Softly, he touches Zayn’s mouth, dragging his fingers over his bottom lip to pull it down. _‘Bet your tongue feels like velvet.’_

   _‘It doesn’t,’_ Zayn says shortly. Trying to distract him, he runs his hands down his own body, subtly pushing him away. He lets a moan escape his mouth, even though he just feels awkward. At least he knows he looks good.

   _‘Come on, baby.’_ He puts his hands behind his head, thrusting up into Zayn’s swivelling hips. _‘You’re already a whore; might as well make it official.’_

   A slow burn spreads across Zayn’s skin. Determinedly, he keeps moving, needing now to get this over with, even if it means that he doesn’t get a tip. He knows he should call the bouncers, but then the man won’t come back and Zayn needs his money, so he needs to make him believe that there’s a chance. And getting him kicked out of the club will most likely shatter that illusion for good.

   He takes forever to come, and when he does he grabs a handful of Zayn’s hair and pulls it hard, making him yelp. But then he leaves, and soon after that the night’s over, and Zayn can get changed and brush his teeth and collect the night’s earnings, from Niall, who he trusts to keep track of his money.

   Niall shakes his head at the stack of notes. ‘What do you do to them, Malik?’

   Zayn shrugs. ‘Maybe it’s cos I don’t give them what they want.’

   Niall nods approvingly. ‘Good man. You should have gone to business school.’ Cheekily, he slips a twenty out and stuffs it in his pocket. ‘You owe your goddaughter a birthday present.’

   Zayn thumps him jokingly. ‘You said that last night. And the night before.’

   Niall shrugs, smiling. ‘Selena says we have to start saving for secondary school.’

   ‘She’s two months old.’

   ‘Yep.’ He claps him on the shoulder. ‘Have a good one, Zayn.’

  

*

‘He called me a whore.’

   Harry makes a sad face, his green eyes narrowing. ‘That sucks. But don’t let it get to you, Zayn. He only said it cos he wanted to fuck you.’

   It’s always startling when Harry swears, even though he does it almost constantly. He’s got this baby face, complete with double dimples and angelic curls. The only thing about him that isn’t adorable is his filthy mouth, with its blowjob lips and razor-sharp tongue.

   He doesn’t work at the same strip club as Zayn, but they go to the same 24-hour café to unwind afterwards, and over the months they’ve happened to learn that they get along. They’re not particularly attracted to each other though – unlike the guys who go to Harry’s club, where he’s the undisputed main attraction, Zayn doesn’t like skinny, wide-eyeed boys who look like they’re fourteen – which is a shame, because it would be convenient to be. Still, Zayn values their friendship maybe more than he would if they were (as Harry would put it) fucking.

   Zayn sighs, draining his coffee. He needs the kick so he won’t have a hangover tomorrow. With the best intentions in the world, it’s hard not to chase away nausea with alcohol.

   No one ever calls Harry a whore. His clients adore him, lavish him with presents, offer to take him away to France or Italy or Greece, even though he has the same policy as Zayn when it comes to sex. They don’t need it from him, hardly ever even ask. Zayn supposes he just looks too sweet to hurt, and he knows that Harry plays it up to his advantage, practically lisping when he talks to them.

   Zayn can’t say he blames him, either.

   Harry pats his hand, then pushes his own espresso towards him. ‘Take it. I got a fair few tips tonight. Besides, my friend’s flying in from America tomorrow and he pays for _everything.’_ He smiles smugly. ‘He’s a lawyer. Fucking brilliant one, too.’

   ‘A client?’

   ‘Fuck, no.’ He pulls a face. ‘Ex-sort-of-boyfriend, actually. We dated for a while but he got jealous of the whole dry-fucking-other-dudes thing.’ He grins. ‘Plus I called his best friend a dozy cunt.’

   _‘Why?’_

   He shrugs. ‘It’s what I call everyone. But she got really offended –’

   ‘You said it to a _girl?’_

   He shrugs again. ‘Gender’s a construct. So are vaginas.’

   ‘Yeah, but –’

   ‘Anyway, he got mad when I wouldn’t apologise and then later we had a fight and I told him to go away and by the time he came back I was already going out with Michael. But he was pretty chill about it. He said he couldn’t handle me anyway. So now we’re friends and he sends me American sweets sometimes. Says he wants me to get fat so I won’t be such an arrogant dickhead.’ Another smug smile, patting his slim stomach. ‘He’s just jealous cos he’s got a slow metabolism. And I’m jealous cos he’s got a fucking fantastic arse.’

   Zayn’s ears perk up. He’s always been a bit of a sucker for curves. ‘What’s his name?’

   ‘Louis.’

‘French?’

   ‘No, just pretentious. He was ‘Lewis’ up until he was nineteen, then he decided it wasn’t ‘exotic’ enough.’ He runs his finger suggestively around the rim of Zayn’s empty cup, then licks off the excess cream, batting his soft green eyes. ‘Ugh, if I don’t get some soon I’m gonna have to fuck him when he comes around tomorrow. I’m _so_ fucking horny.’

   ‘Jack off,’ Zayn suggests – then grabs Harry’s wrist when he obediently starts to reach into his trousers. ‘At _home._ God.’

   ‘Hey,’ Harry says suddenly, his hand still absently hovering above his crotch. ‘If I’m gonna convince him to fuck me I can’t really bring him to the club with me…is it alright if I drop him off with you during my shift? You don’t have to look after him or anything, just give him a lap dance.’ He twinkles. ‘That’ll make him _so_ uncomfortable.’

   ‘Lap dances aren’t supposed to make you feel uncomfortable.’

   ‘Oh, go on. He’ll pay you through the nose – rich kid guilt. Just sit down on him and start gyrating. He’ll be too mortified to say no.’ He bats his eyes again. _‘Please?_ Take him to the champers room and he’ll be gagging for it by the time he gets out.’

   ‘I’m not facilitating you manipulating your ex-boyfriend into sex.’

   ‘We’re talking four hundred quid, easy.’

   ‘Alright,’ Zayn says, maybe not as reluctantly as he’d like. ‘But if it’s less then that, you’re making up the difference, Styles.’

   Harry hugs him happily. ‘You’re the best of the best, babes.’

   There it is again: _best._

Zayn’s still kind of sceptical, but he takes it.

 

*

Zayn is exhausted. He had three lectures today and he can barely keep his eyes open, working pretty much exclusively on muscle memory as he dances and purrs and makes witty comebacks to creeps.

   But at some point, just after he’s finished giving a lap dance to a particularly over-enthusiastic drunk woman who squeezed his face in her hands and told him he reminded her of her son, he hears Niall bellow ‘Malik, someone’s looking for you!’ and he automatically turns – and the person he sees standing a couple of feet away from him starts him out of his stupor like a train barrelling into his chest.

   He’s bloody gorgeous. He’s got a sharp, intelligent-looking face outlined with a week’s worth of golden scruff, contrasting sharply but attractively with his soft, thick fringe and the tantalising curve of his waist and his hips, obvious even in his loose jeans and T-shirt (he’s got amazing arms, too: they look like they could lift a house). And his _eyes,_ Christ, bluer than bubblegum ice, sharp-edged and alert like a cat.

   Zayn becomes aware that he’s standing still, not even swaying to the music like he’s supposed to do at all times if he’s not actually pressed up against someone. Niall sees it and gives him a pointed look, at which he snaps out of it, walks over and goes to shake Louis’s hand – then remembers where he is and gives him his best attempt at bedroom eyes instead. ‘Hey. Umm, Harry told me to take care of you. If that’s alright,’ he adds awkwardly, because he’s not used to outright propositioning people. They usually choose whether they want to be cock-teased by him.

   Louis rolls his eyes, a little exasperatedly. ‘I’ll bet he did. Alright.’ And he gives him an almost conspiratorial smile that makes Zayn go weak at the knees because it’s the sexiest thing he’s ever seen in his life. ‘Do your worst.’

   ‘Hold up,’ Niall says, stepping between them. ‘It’s not a freebie. He’s on work hours.’

   Louis raises an eyebrow, and pats the pocket of his jeans – which, Zayn now notices, is bulging. ‘Do I look like I need freebies?’

   ‘You look homeless,’ Niall retorts, and Zayn blushes.

   Louis, though, just laughs. ‘Fair dos. I didn’t realise I was gonna be cross-examined on my bank account but…’ Expertly, he reaches into his other pocket and takes out a wad of fifties, which he fans in front of Niall’s face playfully. ‘Convinced?’

   Niall’s face doesn’t change, but he steps aside. ‘All yours, Malik.’

   Louis smiles, takes two notes from the pile, and presses them into Niall’s hand. ‘Glad to see you look after the talent so well.’

   Niall’s mouth drops open a little, but Zayn’s already taking Louis’s hand and drawing him through the crowds, weirdly desperate to get him on his own. He wants to push Louis’s head into his neck; feel that scruff on his skin. He wants to watch Louis fall apart in front of him. He wants to show him what he can do; show him that he’s the best.

   Once he’s shut the door to the Champagne Room, Zayn pushes Louis down on the padded chair, pleased at how his eyes widen in surprise. ‘You know,’ he says, and it’s Zayn’s turn to be surprised at the slight tremor in his voice, something almost like nerves. ‘You really don’t have to do anything, I’ll pay you anyway, I’m only here cos Harry –’

   ‘Do you want me?’ Zayn says bluntly. He’s never had to ask anyone before. But he wants to know. Louis’s looking at him like he wants him, his eyes burning, his lips parted, his hands clenching and unclenching on his thighs. But maybe this is too much for him. Maybe he only came here to wait for Harry; wait for something better.

   Louis licks his lips. His tongue is pointed and it leaves them glistening.

   Zayn wants his mouth all over him. The butterflies in his stomach are scaring him a little. He’s never felt like this before, about anyone, and certainly not anyone paying him to semi-ride them. This isn’t how it works, none of this is making sense, but when Louis breathes _‘Yes’_ and his voice is rough suddenly with want, Zayn doesn’t hang around for him to change his mind.

   He doesn’t start like he usually does, full-body contact. He turns around, slowly, oddly aware of how exposed he is in his underwear – silver tonight, the pair that are more like lingerie than anything else – and then he spreads his legs and bends down before the other boy, until his hands are on the floor, the carpet burning his palms.

   He hears Louis’s intake of breath and it jolts his heart. He’s never been so involved in how his client is reacting, simply assuming they’re enjoying (in fairness, he’s never been proven wrong). He’s never cared that much about the nuances of their experience, mostly sticking to quick and dirty. This, he wants this to be slow. He wants to feel it.

   He’s aware of the song changing, a song that he recognises for once, by the The Weeknd, something sexy and drawn-out, and he lets his body change with it, loosening, relaxing, as he straightens up (Louis shifts in his seat) and turns, gratified with the pink in Louis’s face, and the shine in his eyes.

   He crouches, spreads his legs, rolls his back so in one fluid motion he’s upright again. Louis’s gripping the arms of the chair, entranced, hunger written all over him.

   After another minute, Zayn decides he’s tortured him enough, and slowly straddles Louis’s right leg, pressing his thigh against the other boy’s crotch, and _‘Fuck’_ Louis grits out, and he’s as hard as rock and Zayn could _laugh_ with glee, except he doesn’t want this to be over because for the first time he’s _enjoying_ himself, he _likes_ it, he doesn’t want it to stop. He loves the noises Louis’s making, like he’s trying so hard to control himself but he can’t stop his little gasps and moans. He loves how his hands are balled, obviously aching with the effort of restraining himself from touching. He loves how when he turns, rolls his hips backwards between Louis’s legs, it’s as intimate as if they’re having sex. Zayn’s actually worked up, his dick swollen and aching, and that just doesn’t happen, it’s not supposed to happen.

   ‘Do you want me?’ he repeats breathlessly, and it’s mindless, he can’t help it, he’s so gone and he wants to feel Louis’s scruff between his thighs, doesn’t care that it’s against every rule in his book.

   ‘Yes,’ Louis says, quiet and hoarse.

   Zayn reaches behind him, takes Louis’s hands and prises them open before placing them on his hips, pressing his own hands over them to encourage them to grip, to bruise. He wants to feel it in the morning. He wants to feel it for the rest of his life.

   _‘Yes,’_ Louis repeats, and then he yanks Zayn properly into him and buries his face in the space just above his shoulder, sucking the tender skin there until Zayn’s whimpering, his hips bucking helplessly.

   _‘Bend over,’_ Louis whispers in his ear before nipping quickly at his earlobe, and Zayn does what he says, so he’s in the same position as before but between Louis’s legs, presenting his arse to him.

   Slowly, Louis hooks his fingers into the edges of Zayn’s underwear and pulls them down to his ankles. The shiver of the thin material makes Zayn moan, anticipation and need making his head spin, to the point that he’s sure he’s dreaming. This isn’t happening. He doesn’t let this happen.

   He feels Louis’s hands part his arse cheeks, and then his warm, wet tongue is licking a stripe over Zayn’s hole and he nearly collapses to the floor, sheer need holding him up although his wrists and ankles are trembling and his mind is disintegrating at the sensation; the soft heat of Louis’s tongue and the harsh burn of his scruff, enough to drive the most stable man insane.

He keeps licking, prodding Zayn’s hole with his tongue until he’s almost fucking it, scratching his beard against his skin like he knows exactly what he’s doing, and Zayn’s arms start to ache so he lowers himself down on his elbows, pressing his face into the floor to stifle his cries, his pleas of _Yes_ and _Don’t stop._

   But Louis does stop, and Zayn supposes he had to, couldn’t keep doing it forever, but oh God he wants more, wants all of it, but he stays where he is, legs shaking, so scared that it’s over.

   Then he hears a rustle of material, Louis’s voice ordering him to get up, turn around, and when he does the man is as naked as him, lazily stroking his dick, smiling as he takes in all of Zayn, from the carpet burn on his face to his swollen cock.

‘You gonna ride me now, babe?’ Louis asks, and it’s not really a question because they both know Zayn’s going to do whatever he wants after that, but Zayn still murmurs _Yes_ before he shuffles forward, straddles Louis’s legs still standing, and then lowers himself down, his hole loose and lubricated with Louis’s spit. There’s still a burn, a stretch, as Louis breaches him, but Louis grips his hips again to steady him, controlling his pace, holding him still when he gasps, and Zayn doesn’t even know how many songs it’s been before he’s fully there, completely full of Louis, his own dick still lying neglected and slick against his stomach.

   He gives Louis a pleading look, and Louis smirks. ‘Gotta take care of me first, babes.’

   So Zayn starts to ride him, hesitant at first, hasn’t done this in ages (sex for him normally happens with the lights off because he gives it to people who are ashamed of taking it), but Louis just leans back, puts his hands behind his head and watches, thrusting up every now and then but mostly letting Zayn do the work, and it’s not long before Zayn’s properly into it, chasing the perfect angle, his arms around Louis’s shoulders and his face in his neck, biting into it whenever he manages to hit his prostrate and that pleasure bursts inside him, otherwise just panting and whispering Louis’s name, and when Louis’s hips start to shudder and Zayn lets him pull out, he drops to his knees again between Louis’s legs to lick at the tip until Louis comes with a cry of lost control, all over Zayn’s chest.

   And now it’s Zayn’s turn to smirk at the spent man in front of him, breathing heavily, flushed crimson, completely unravelled. ‘You gonna take care of me now?’

   And Louis does, pushing Zayn down so he’s flat on his back, hitching up his knees and spreading his legs, sucking his cock until he comes down his throat, fireworks exploding in his blood and choirs singing Louis’s name.

   When it’s over they lie still for a little while, recovering. Then Louis gets to his feet, and starts to shrug on his clothes.

   Zayn sits up, biting his lip, a little concerned that Louis thinks what just happened is a part of the service, payable in cash. ‘I…I’ve never done that before,’ he admits, his voice small.

   ‘Me neither,’ Louis replies. His voice is soft, and a little cracked.

   ‘People wanted me to,’ Zayn adds, because he doesn’t know how to explain it, how to make Louis understand how important what just happened was to him. ‘But I didn’t let them. I don’t fuck customers.’

   Louis hesitates, fumbles the button on his jeans. He’s still shirtless, and Zayn can’t help admiring the trail of downy golden hair from his navel to the waistband of his boxers. ‘So…what does that make me?’

   ‘I don’t know,’ Zayn says quietly.

   Louis sighs, shrugs on his jacket. ‘Look, I have to pay you, I can’t just –’

   ‘I don’t want you to.’

   ‘Zayn –’

   ‘I’m not a prostitute.’

   ‘I didn’t say you were. But look where we _are.’_ He indicates the room almost angrily. His hands are shaking. ‘I wouldn’t feel right if I didn’t. Harry would never let me hear the end of it.’

   ‘You’re gonna tell _Harry?’_

   ‘No, I didn’t mean – God, _fuck.’_ He runs his hands through his hair agitatedly, his eyes burning now for the wrong reasons. ‘What do you want me to do, Zayn? It was supposed to be a lap dance.’

   ‘I know,’ Zayn mutters. His eyes are stinging. He stares at the floor, folding his legs up to his chest.

   Tentatively, Louis touches his shoulder. ‘Look, I’m not gonna tell Harry. But I have to pay you. I wish it could be something else, believe me, I do. But I can’t date someone like you. Fuck, I mean…well, I do mean that. You seem like a really cool person, and that was incredible, what happened. But you’ll do it for someone else, someday. And then someone else. And what, I’d be the idiot sitting at home waiting for you?’ He removes his hand. ‘I’m not that guy. I can’t be.’ Out of the corner of his eye, Zayn sees him set down a wad of money on the floor beside him, then turn away.

   ‘Thank you,’ Louis says softly, before he closes the door behind him.

   Zayn still doesn’t look up. He’s crying, he realises, tears running in molten rivers down his face.

   But he’s got a job to do, so he cleans himself up, slips back into his underwear, and ten minutes later he’s back on the counter, dancing, as if nothing ever happened.

   Because, he tells himself, nothing did. It was a glitch. An accident. A mistake.

   And it’s never going to happen again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it was only supposed to be a one/shot but i'm pretty sure i'm gonna add another chapter cos it turned out way to angsty. still i hope you enjoyed it, and you know, feel free to like/comment if you did :)


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Louis comes back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i know it took a long time but i FINALLY wrote another chapter cos i couldn't leave Zayn sad like that. so here it is and hope you like it :)

Zayn is a mess.

   He’s been a mess for a week now, ever since Louis fucking Tomlinson walked into his life, fucked him raw, gave him two thousand quid then walked right out again.

   He doesn’t know what to do with himself. He goes to school, he reads his books, he dances, he pushes groping hands away just like he’s always done. But he’s hollow inside. The only time he feels alive is at night, dreaming about Louis’s tongue; Louis’s hands; Louis’s cock. It consumes him completely. Everything else just tastes like cardboard.

   Louis, true to his word, didn’t tell Harry. When Zayn showed his friend the wad of money though, his eyes widened to the size of saucers. ‘Fuck, Malik, what did you _do?’_

   Zayn smirked secretively, but he knew that his eyes were empty.

   Harry gave him a suspicious look. ‘Is this why he wouldn’t fuck me? That wasn’t the deal, Malik, you were supposed to get him ready, not –’

   ‘Shut up, Styles,’ Zayn snapped. ‘I did what you asked me to do, OK? I kept him busy. It’s not my fault he didn’t want to fuck you.’

   ‘Calm the fuck down,’ Harry retorted. ‘Look, I don’t what this shit is, if you’ve caught feelings or whatever, but step off. He doesn’t date people like us. Said as much to me last night when I tried to suck his dick. He’s too good for us.’

   Anger prickled beneath Zayn’s skin. Followed by unease. Then self-loathing. What was he thinking? Of course he’s not good enough for Louis Tomlinson. He spends half his life trying to make old men come.

   _People like you._

   Poor, like him. Desperate, like him. Scraping survival, like him.

   He’s not like Harry. Harry enjoys it. He could have stopped when he was dating Louis – God knows, he definitely had enough money to support the both of them – but Harry doesn’t want to give up a life where he can play and tease and charm and taste the steel edge of danger. He loves this life, and Zayn’s glad that he does.

   Because, now that he’s tasted something better, it’s starting to wear away at him. His principles go lax; his hunger for Louis blinds him to them. He grows lazy; he places people’s hands on his hips and chest, lets them bite his neck and grope him through his jeans. He lives in fear of the next time someone takes him to the Champagne Room, because he’s sure in himself that whoever they are, whatever they ask, he’ll do it, just to feel a hint of that rush again.

   Thankfully, before that can happen, he gets a text from Liam asking if he wants to meet up. They go to a cheap restaurant and end up in the bathroom, Zayn’s legs wrapped around Liam’s waist; Liam’s hand over Zayn’s mouth; Zayn’s body banging against the cold walls of the cubicle as Liam takes what he was always going to take. Zayn’s legs are weak afterwards, and his eyes are watering for reasons he won’t divulge although Liam is sweetly concerned, apologising and offering to walk him home. They end up both sitting on Zayn’s bed, fully clothed, Liam just _looking_ at him with those liquid eyes, and eventually Zayn tells him the reason that tears are still pouring down his face; tells him about Louis Tomlinson.

   Liam, as would be accepted, is both sympathetic and practical. ‘You should try to see him again. Outside of…the club. If he sees you in a normal setting, maybe –’

   ‘I can’t ask Harry to do that for me.’

   ‘Why not?’

‘It’s too…personal.’

   ‘Zayn, you’re _sad._ You have to do something.’

   And then Zayn’s fed up with talking about it so he just murmurs ‘What if I do this?’ and then he unbuckles Liam’s jeans and deepthroats him until they’re both seeing stars.

   ‘You’re kind of incredible,’ Liam says weakly, afterwards, and Zayn tries to smile even though it makes him feel like dirt. That this is what he excels at. That this is the only thing he can offer anybody. That this is it.

 

*

A couple of nights later, Zayn is grinding loosely on some woman with an engagement ring, letting her press her hands against his arse to pull him closer, kissing her when she whispers _‘You’re so beautiful’,_ when he looks up and sees Louis Tomlinson standing in the doorway, his face shaven and his eyes on fire.

   He looks different this time, smarter, cleaner, like he’s just come out of a meeting. His soft hair is swept back into a quiff that makes his cheekbones look like razor blades, and he’s wearing a black button down, a long black coat, and fitted navy jeans. He looks halfway to terrifying.

   Except…he looks tired, too. Purple shadows ring his eyes. His hands are shaking. As he stares at Zayn, some of the fire in his eyes goes out, leaving drops of icy hurt.

   But he stays, feet firmly planted, his stance dominant but patient, waiting for the world to come to him.

   And Zayn does, of course, as soon as the woman gives his arse one last pat and sends him away with a fistful of money. He walks slowly towards this man he’s been dreaming about for the past two weeks, feeling like he might as well be on his hands and knees. Louis is so beautiful. And, like this, he fucking _exudes_ power. He looks like a prince; like a God.

   ‘I paid for the Champagne Room,’ he somehow hears Louis say, softly, through the roaring in his ears. ‘For…you. But I’d rather go outside. Is that OK?’

   Zayn glances at Niall, standing nearby and obviously listening in, and he seems a little uncertain but when he glances at Louis, who’s obviously doing something threatening with his eyes, he nods.

   Louis slips him some money as he leads Zayn out, shrugging out of his coat and placing it around his shoulders.

   Zayn’s grateful, because it’s cold out, and apart from the coat he’s only in his Iron Man underwear. ‘Thank you,’ he mumbles, but Louis doesn’t reply.

   Once they’re outside, tucked away in a pocket of dark safe from the streetlights, some of the fight seems to go out of Louis. He slumps against the wall and stares up at the sky, exhaling in a deep sigh.

   ‘What’s wrong?’ Zayn asks timidly, unsure if he’s allowed to talk, unsure of everything.

   Louis’s gaze snaps back to him, and for a few seconds he just stares, seeming utterly incredulous. ‘What’s _wrong?’_ he repeats, as if it’s the stupidest question he’s ever been asked. _‘You’re_ what’s wrong. I can’t get you the fuck out of my head. It’s driving me crazy. I can’t fucking see straight.’

   ‘Me too,’ Zayn says quietly. His heart is pounding harder than it ever has. Louis felt it too. _Feels_ it too. It’s like there’s a string connecting their hearts, pulled a little tauter every day. It pulled him back, even to this place that he obviously hates with every inch of his being. He came here. For Zayn.

   Louis shakes his head. ‘I can’t, Zayn. I can’t go through this again. With Harry…God, you don’t even know, him dancing out every fucking night, coming back smelling like them –’

   ‘I’m not Harry,’ Zayn says, with more strength than he would have thought possible considering he’s standing in front of a man who makes his knees want to give out.

   Louis’s eyes soften a little. ‘I know, Zayn, I know you’re not, but…people like you –’

   _‘Stop,’_ Zayn says firmly. ‘Just fucking stop with that. There’s no ‘people like me’. I dance because I don’t have a choice. I didn’t grow up with everything _handed_ to me –’

   ‘And you think I did?’

   ‘I do this so I can look after myself, so I can put myself through university –’

   ‘There are other ways!’ Louis suddenly yells, startling him. ‘I grew up with no money. I grew up fucking _hungry._ So I got a job in a toyshop and another job in a bar. Never did it _once_ occur to me to give up my body –’

   ‘Fuck you, Tomlinson,’ Zayn snaps. His blood is boiling. How dare this filthy rich, gorgeous lawyer march back into his life and tell him what to do with it; how to cope with looking after himself? ‘You think it means something; moaning and grinding and getting them off? You think they can touch me; they can take away who I am? You think it’s anything past manipulating people for money? It doesn’t mean _anything.’_

   Louis’s mouth falls open, physically stepping back, and too late Zayn realises he thinks he’s being included in that category.

   ‘No,’ he states, and, with daring he never thought he’d be able to summon, he reaches out and takes Louis’s hands where they’re hovering, protectively braced, by his hips. They’re cold, and soft as cream. ‘Not you. You were different. I don’t know why, but you were.’

   Louis blinks hard; looks down at the floor as if he can’t bear to meet his eye anymore. ‘I don’t know why were you were either.’

   The cold is crawling up the gaps in the coat, seeping into Zayn’s bones. ‘Lou,’ he murmurs. ‘I can’t stand out here much longer.’

   Louis looks up, those bubblegum-blue eyes alight. ‘Then come home with me,’ he whispers. ‘I’ll look after you.’

   Zayn’s heart clenches, and for a moment there’s fireworks in his stomach and honey on his tongue. He could leave all this, flip the bird to those old men begging for his mouth, curl up in Louis’s arms and be protected forever…

   As what? A toy? A doll? That’s clearly how Louis sees him, just like how Liam saw him. How everyone sees him. Louis doesn’t know anything about him, just that he looks good and can spread his legs on command.

   If that’s all he would want from him, then how would that be any better?

   So even though he’s aching for him, in body and heart, he listens to his head and lets go of Louis. ‘My shift isn’t over.’

   Louis bites his lip, his forehead creasing. He’s obviously struggling with his pride, and Zayn waits patiently to see who’ll win. ‘I’ll…wait for you. If that’s really what you want.’

   ‘No, Louis,’ Zayn says gently, and even though he knows it’s wrong he can’t stop himself briefly cupping Louis’s jaw in his hand. It’s so strong, yet so delicate. How does he do that? Zayn’s only ever been able to be delicate. ‘You were the right the first time. I don’t think this can work.’

   The look on Louis’s face just about breaks Zayn’s heart. It’s not just pain, but shock. He’s probably never been rejected before. He probably can’t understand why. ‘Zayn…I’m sorry about what I said, OK? I just…’

   ‘It’s OK,’ Zayn says. ‘You can’t handle it.’ _Or you can, but as long as I’m only doing it for you._ ‘You don’t have to.’

   Louis brings his hand up to grip Zayn’s wrist. ‘I don’t want you to have to either,’ he says, and his voice cracks in the middle of it and it makes Zayn want to fucking cry. ‘I thought you hated it. Why do you want to stay?’

   _Because I’m worth more than what they make of me. I wouldn’t know how to be worth more than what you would. I’d lose myself._ ‘Because I have to live my own life. I have to look after myself.’ Isn’t that the reason why he’s never accepted any of the others’ propositions? He doesn’t want to belong to anyone, in any sense of the word. He doesn’t want to be at anyone’s mercy. He wants to be free.

   But Louis looks so upset that he has to say what he says next, even though it makes him want to gag. ‘You can still…if you pay.’

   For a second, Louis looks like he’s considering it. Then he leans forward and kisses the corner of Zayn’s mouth, before walking away. His shoulders are hunched as he retreats. He looks broken.

 

*

‘I have been instructed,’ Harry drawls, looking none-too-happy about it, ‘to inform you that Louis wants to see you tonight.’

   Zayn groans into his coffee. ‘Harry, look, I told him I didn’t want –’

   ‘I can’t believe you slept with my boyfriend.’

   ‘Ex,’ Zayn corrects half-heartedly. Harry’s eyes are sparkling. He’s enjoying this, the little shithead. ‘So he told you.’

   ‘Of course not. He’s a perfect gentleman; no kissing and telling. I inferred, because despite the act I put on for my clients, I’m not an idiot. Now why the fuck, since he’s so obviously smitten with you, are you not riding his dick right fucking now?’

   Zayn flinches. ‘It’s complicated.’

   ‘It is fucking not. Louis’s the least complicated person in existence. He likes you and he wants to sweep you off your feet and whisk you away to America to live happily after fucking after. What on earth is the problem?’

   ‘He’d _own_ me. What if I wanted to leave?’

   ‘You know what he did when he walked in on me sucking Michael off? He bought us dinner and paid my rent for six months. And we’re still friends. He helps me out when I need it and won’t take so much as a kiss off me. When he says he’ll look after you, he means it. It’s not about whether you love him or live with him or give him anything. He just wants you to be safe and happy.’

   ‘But –’

   ‘And even if you’re sure it won’t last forever, God, Malik, take a holiday. Get eaten out on silk sheets. Drink champagne until you’re pissing it.’

   Zayn flinches again. Why is he so vulgar?

   And why is he making this sound like a good idea?

   _‘Go,’_ Harry insists. ‘Go have dinner with him and let him take you to America.’

   ‘I have school –’

   ‘You will never learn anything that’s worth what he can give you.’

   ‘Harry, that’s –’

   ‘Zayn, for once in your life, stop _thinking_ so much. Fucking hell.’

   Zayn excuses himself, and phones Liam, because he’s the most sensible person he knows. He’ll tell him to get his head out of the clouds and stay exactly where he is, and then he’ll be able to.

   ‘Oh my God, Zayn, that sounds am _a_ zing. You have to go!’

   Fuck.

   Zayn tries to explain the ownership and freedom thing to him, but it doesn’t really take. Liam’s a lot of wonderful things, but skilled with abstract concepts isn’t one of them. ‘Don’t you think it’s adorable he wants you all to himself. Oh, he must really like you. That’s so awesome!’

Zayn hangs up.

   But he goes, because Harry will never let him hear the end of it if he doesn’t and Zayn’s life is miserable enough already thank you very much.

   Louis’s staying at the Ritz (because of course he is). Harry leads Louis to a chauffer-driven Rolls Royce parked outside the café and hops in with him, cheerfully ordering the driver to drop him off at his own flat, a slightly dodgy block overlooking the Thames. Before he gets out, he kisses Zayn full on the mouth and whispers _Give him that from me._ Then he’s gone and Zayn’s alone in a chauffer-driven Rolls Royce with precisely fifteen minutes to absorb this bizarre, unprecedented situation before the driver pulls up outside the hotel.

   Aside from being fucking massive, it’s not alarmingly extravagant on the exterior and for a moment Zayn’s relieved as he steps out of the car.

   Then he sees Louis, looking just as expensive as he did the other day, casually leaning against one of the stone pillars, smoking a cigarette.

   And instantly, Zayn feels about six years old. ‘Hi,’ he mumbles. He’s glad that the smoke partially obscures Louis’s face – specifically, his eyes. He doesn’t know if he could stand seeing them right now.

   ‘Hi,’ Louis replies, and then he steps up close to Zayn, presses their mouths together and, when Zayn’s automatically opens, breathes a mouthful of smoke down his throat.

   And it’s so sexy and yet gentle and so _exactly_ what Zayn needs that he almost collapses into Louis’s arm, wound tight around his waist.

   Louis steadies him, leaning back with a small smile. ‘Thank you for coming.’ His tone is measured and even.

   Zayn’s painfully aware of the contrast when he speaks. He’s practically stuttering. ‘I…thank you.’

   Louis’s smile widens, his eyes glinting. Zayn has to squint: he’s literally sunshine. ‘Come on. I have a room I think you’ll like.’

   So Zayn lets Louis lead him through the shining, chandelier-laden, marbled hallway to the gold-plated, monogrammed lift, up and up and up to almost the top floor.

   Louis sees him staring at the button he pressed, and smirks. ‘Penthouse suite was taken. I’ll have to take you to it another time.’

   And fuck, if that doesn’t make Zayn’s mouth go dry. He _wants_ another time. He wants all the times. He doesn’t even care about this grandeur and gold and weird old-fashioned paintings on the walls. He can’t keep his eyes off of Louis. And Louis’s staring right back at him. They keep their eyes on each other even as they step off the lift and Louis finds the door to his suite and Zayn doesn’t even have time to take it in, only hears the click of lock before Louis’s on him, holding his chin up as he attacks his neck with his lips and his tongue, flicking every single nerve like a light switch until Zayn’s blazing with need. He doesn’t even have to think about the way he’s fumbling with the buttons of Louis’s jacket, ridding him of it and his silken shirt as he gasps at the ceiling, everywhere and nowhere all at once.

   They fall into bed, Louis on top of Zayn, now licking at the dip of his collarbone while his hands fixate on undoing both their jeans at once. He’s like a hurricane, and Zayn wonders dizzily how long he’s been dreaming of this, how long he’s gone without touch just to wait for him, and it makes him gasp again, way too loudly, embarrassingly, like he’s doing it for attention.

   At the sound, Louis looks up at him. His eyes are saturated with lust, his pupils blown and black. ‘What do you want?’ he whispers, and Zayn allows himself to think that he only means now, what does he want Louis to do to _him,_ not after, not in two days, not for the rest of his life even though the answer’s probably the same anyway.

   ‘You,’ he croaks, head spinning like a plate in a circus show. ‘Please. You.’

   Slowly, Louis’s hands find his waistband and pull it down, until Zayn’s completely naked, naked as the day they met. Louis lets out this weird, stifled moan at the sight and then without preamble takes him into his mouth, all the way, and Zayn has to clench his fists around the sheets to stop himself screaming.

   ‘Fuck me,’ Louis orders, and Zayn has no idea how he’s managing to sound dominant with his mouth full of Zayn’s dick, but he is. ‘Fuck m’ mouth, c’mon.’

   Tentatively, Zayn thrusts upwards, and the noise Louis makes and the way the back of his throat feels and how gone Zayn is already make it pretty easy for him to do it again and again and again, until he cries out because he’s so close, so close, so close…

   And Louis pops off, smirking, his voice breaking a bit but in the best way, like voices do after their owners have been throat-fucked. It makes Zayn blush and beam at the same time.

   ‘Gonna fuck you now,’ Louis mumbles, low and strong. ‘Gonna fuck you so hard, that what you want? That what you need?’

   _‘Yes,’_ Zayn gasps. ‘Please, yes.’

   He smirks a little. ‘Sorry babes, I couldn’t hear you, speak up a little bit.’

   ‘Yes!’ Zayn yells, and fuck, it’s like weight being lifted from his chest it feels _so good_ to just scream what he wants. ‘Yes yes yes yes yes!’

   Louis laughs, a sound like silver bells. ‘Alright love, hold on.’

   Still lying back, looking at the ceiling, Zayn hears the slick of lube and he lets his legs fall even more open, burning, so ready for it, so ready to feel him again.

   ‘Missed you,’ he whispers, because he can’t shout this. He’s not even sure he wants him to hear it. ‘Missed you so much.’

   There’s a pause, with no movement, no words. The air is heavy and Zayn’s eyes sting, scared he’s messed up, made it too serious. What does Louis want from him? His body? His heart? Just this one more time?

   ‘I missed you too,’ Zayn hears, so quiet it could have been a breath. Then Louis’s inside him, the lube cold against both their heat, but soon succumbing to the burn that’s painful for an instant then incredible, so intense Zayn almost blacks out except he can’t, he has to hold on because he doesn’t know how long this is going to last, how long either of them can go without ruining it, breaking this bubble they’ve somehow found themselves encased in where Zayn’s good enough for Louis and nothing matters outside what they want right now.

   Louis fucks him hard, relentlessly, and Zayn just scream through it, almost cringing as he hears himself begging for more. It’s quick and dirty and loud and rough but they come at the same time, Louis’s hand on Zayn’s cock, and it’s the most, the best, that Zayn’s ever felt. His heart races and his skin tingles with it even after, when Louis’s cleaning them up with a washcloth from the bathroom, kissing the sweat from his forehead, pulling the covers up over both of them.

   Neither of them say anything for a long, long time. Zayn’s as tense as a spring, waiting, waiting for Louis to give him money or an excuse or a reason to leave. He thinks Louis might be waiting too. Maybe he thinks he doesn’t need to give him a reason. Maybe silence is reason enough.

   But just as Zayn’s steeling himself to get out of the bed, Louis speaks. ‘What’s your favourite colour?’

   And it’s such a stupid, small question, doesn’t really mean anything – except it does. It’s as if Louis _knew,_ knew exactly what Zayn was so scared of, and he’s trying to reassure him it doesn’t have to be. He’s trying to know him, so Zayn can’t ever say he doesn’t want him for who he is. ‘It’s blue.’

   Louis chuckles. ‘Like my eyes.’

   ‘No,’ Zayn says playfully. ‘Your eyes are aquamarine. I like cerulean.’

   Louis laughs properly, loud and disbelieving. ‘Well, that shut me up.’ He laces his fingers through Zayn’s beneath the sheets, squeezing tight. ‘I do like you, you know. The stuff I said…it was so hard, you know, with Harry. I thought…I didn’t know how I could make it not be the same. But then I realised…it’s you. You’re what makes it not the same. You’re you. And even if you don’t want me, even if I’m not enough for you –’

   ‘Not enough for _me?’_

   ‘I’m never enough,’ he says. His tone is light. That makes what he’s saying worse. ‘People want me for my money. But they never stay. But that’s OK, Zayn, honestly. Even if we just get right now, or if you ever need anything…’ Another squeeze. ‘You’ve got a piece of my heart now.’

   _Right now,_ Zayn thinks, Louis’s voice echoing in his head like a song. He likes the sound of that. Right now could be forever.

   And forever sounds pretty good.

   ‘Well,’ he murmurs, turning so that his mouth is pressed against Louis’s ear. ‘I wouldn’t want to go walking off with a piece of your heart. I’ll have to stay with you until you get it back.’

   ‘Are you sure?’ Louis replies, a smile in his voice. ‘The heart’s a stubborn thing. What if I never get it back?’

   ‘Then I’ll just have to never leave,’ Zayn whispers.

   There’s a pause. Then Louis kisses him, mouth to mouth, winding around him like ivy. ‘That sounds like…the best.’

   ‘Yeah,’ Zayn says softly, running his fingers in wonder through Louis’s fine, soft hair. ‘It does.’

   They fall asleep like that: pressed together chest to chest, heart to heart.

**Author's Note:**

> it was only supposed to be a one/shot but i'm pretty sure i'm gonna add another chapter cos it turned out way to angsty. still i hope you enjoyed it, and you know, feel free to like/comment if you did :)


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